[Issue 16 / Feb 16]
In between fears of idleness, poems
Some return with the sunshine
of last letters
while others are left to remember
people’s lives like they would their deaths.
A poem, that finds no respite from
its own becoming,
has to be thrown through the window,
into the streets, where it must
stay lost. But people, being people
still look up. Eternity awaiting in their eyes.